Iron Hearted Violet (15 page)

The wall around the enclosure was nearly twenty feet high and six feet thick and was made of stone on the inside and sun-baked clay fortified with a tight web of rushes on the outside. It was built to withstand heat and to resist cracking (should the dragon decide to use its considerable speed and weight to ram through a section of the wall). So far the creature had done neither, which had surprised the King and his advisers and had sent rumors spreading throughout the castle that the dragon was either dying or simply biding its time until the day it would destroy them all. Violet felt sure that neither was true. The dragon, she felt, was something of a dud. It was nothing like the stories said it should be. Nothing at all.

You’re the worst dragon I’ve ever seen
, she found herself thinking toward the slumped creature under the tree.

AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, YOU’VE NEVER SEEN A DRAGON BEFORE.
She felt the words itch at the midpoint of her ear canal. She waved them away like a fly.

“It doesn’t matter what I’ve seen,” she said out loud. “Cassian says that knowing a story is the same as being
there, and in fact it’s even more real than real. I don’t have to
see
a dragon in order to know what it
is
. And I don’t have to look at you very long to know that there are better dragons than you.”

NOT ANYMORE.
The whispery voice was hot and sharp in her ear—or perhaps not her ear. She heard it with her skin, in her mouth, at the tips of her hair. She felt it in the sudden prick of tears at the corner of her eyes.
THERE ARE NONE BETTER AND NONE WORSE. THERE IS ONLY I.

“I don’t believe you.”

The great beast didn’t answer but merely moved its rump from side to side in a way that Violet thought was intentionally rude. It passed gas. Violet
knew
it was on purpose. She nearly gagged on the smell.

“Dragons have always been a plentiful menace,” Violet choked. “Everyone knows that.” She gathered her books into her arms and stood on the wall. “They burn crops and eat cows and steal princesses. They’ve just gotten good at hiding. Dragons are
sneaky
.”

THINK WHAT YOU’D LIKE.

“I will think exactly what I’d like.” Violet flushed and clenched her teeth. A very small part of her wondered at her sudden anger at the captured animal, just as it wondered
at her agitation over—well, a growing number of things. It was as though she had a well of anger inside her that would never run dry. And that same small part of her quietly suggested that perhaps—just perhaps—she should put the book away, or burn it, or forget it altogether. However, since it was a very small part, Violet ignored it easily. “I always think
exactly
what I’d like. Besides, I have proof.” She held up the book at the top of her stack. “The Nybbas brought thousands of you into this world. Thousands and thousands.”

DON’T SAY THAT NAME.

“I will say any name I feel like saying. You’re not in charge of me. You’re just a miserable excuse for a captured dragon. The Nybbas would have made you into a warrior.”

DON’T SAY THAT NAME.

“The Nybbas appointed strong kings and beautiful queens and gave them dragons to serve them.”

DO NOT
—the voice tore into her heart like a sob—
DO NOT SAY THE NAME. PLEASE.

Violet felt her connection to the dragon deepen, as close and raw as a slap. She gasped.

“Why am I bothering to talk to you?” Violet asked, reaching one hand out to the closest branch of the acacia
tree and swinging herself onto a broad, curved limb. “I could probably weave a tale with a dragon ten times as good as you.” And with that, the child disappeared from the edge of the wall, and the dragon was alone.

Chewing the leaves in its mouth thoughtfully, the beast pressed its paws against the ground.

Silence.

The beast sighed and took another mouthful of leaves in relief. Then, in midchew, the left paw felt it first.

A beat.

A beat.

That cursed heart beating.

OH DEAR
, the dragon thought.
OH DEAR, OH DEAR.

Demetrius continued to worry about the Princess. I say this with some shame, as I was the one who loved her best—or so I told myself, anyway. Demetrius, as I mentioned earlier, was by nature a shy boy, both hardworking and kind. He was the sort of person who listened far more than he ever spoke, and who helped people before they even realized that they needed helping.

But it was not only the Princess who worried him. The whole castle seemed… off. Tempers were rattled, cools
were lost, skins thinned. Demetrius noticed that people were spending more time than usual staring at mirrors.

And more troubling, they were
talking
to the mirrors as well. “
Yes, yes, yes
,” people whispered at the mirrors.

Demetrius brought these concerns to me, but I brushed them off. I didn’t want to listen.

(
Coward.
)

And so, Demetrius worried alone.

It was at the same moment that Violet was having her terse conversation with the dragon that Demetrius was, for the first time in his life, in the middle of a fistfight.

What had happened was this: Demetrius had just led the four horses of the four visiting scholars—one scientist, one alchemist, one theorician, and one animal surgeon, all gathered to discuss the dragon—out to the smaller pasture, where they could sip from the stream and rest in the shade. As he was closing the gate to the paddock, he noticed two of the baker’s apprentices leaning against the bakery wall, eating their midday meal. The apprentices, one boy and one girl and both only three years older than Demetrius, smiled at him over their sandwiches and waved him over. Demetrius had a long list of chores to do before he could begin his studies, and was reluctant to tarry any longer than
necessary—particularly given that bakers’ apprentices were notorious for their poor work habits. Still, he didn’t want to be rude.

Now, the southern wall of the bakery was a popular place to linger, since it was heated from both within and without by oven and sun. Also, because some years earlier, it had been painted over by the apprentice of one of our artisans with a large mural depicting the King, the Queen, and a five-year-old Violet, holding on to her mother’s hand. It was a picture I had always admired, for the artist managed to skillfully capture the hearts of the three subjects. King Randall had his hand in his unkempt red hair, and he looked simultaneously amused by his child, distracted by a passing thought, and ever so pleased to see the viewer of the painting. The Queen’s face was lovely, loving and sad. Her black hair draped down her shoulders and fell nearly to her knees. Her one hand clutched that of her child while her other was open, its palm toward the viewer, like an invitation. Violet, as painted, looked entirely like herself, which is to say, wonderful. Her mismatched eyes sparkled and danced, and her auburn hair flew about her body, tangled and wild. Her dress was torn, her nose smudged, and she had a slight chip in one small tooth. It was one of my
favorite places to sit and think, and was for Demetrius as well. Which is why he was surprised at the apprentices, who pointed with their thumbs at the image of the Princess and sniggered unpleasantly.

“What’s so funny?” Demetrius asked.

“Nothing,” said the boy apprentice—both older and much, much bigger than Demetrius—nearly choking on a hunk of bread.

Demetrius slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He pointed at the painting with his chin. “I like that painting.”

“ ’Course you do,” the girl said. “You have to be friends with her.”

“I don’t
have
to be friends with anybody. No one does.” Demetrius, who had never hit anything in his life, found that his palms were itching. He balled his hands into fists, but he didn’t take them out of his pockets.

“Do you want a pastie?” the boy said, offering up a honey-sweetened roll. Demetrius took it, bit off a hunk, and slowly chewed.

“You still haven’t told me what was funny,” he said.

“It isn’t anything,” the girl said. “It’s just that—well—it’s kind of silly, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Demetrius said with his mouth full.

“Nothing,” the girl said. “I mean, it’s just that they’re not what you’d expect, are they? King Randall? He looks as though he could be frightened by a mouse. He’s not what you’d call
kingly
, is he? The Queen was all right, but she’s gone, so what use is her picture anymore? And Violet—I mean, I’m sure she’s
funny
and
smart
, and I’m sure she’s a perfectly fine
friend
.”

“Can you imagine if the King offers her hand to some poor prince as a
reward
? One look at her lopsided face and he’d ask if there was a second option.”

Demetrius didn’t hear the whole sentence. At the word
lopsided
he crouched, and by the word
second
he had flown at the boy, his fists hurling into any body part they could find. Since he hadn’t any practice with fights, Demetrius didn’t really know what he was doing. The older boy, however, had plenty of experience and knew exactly what he was doing. In quick order Demetrius lunged too far, and in one smooth move the boy swiveled his torso from left to right, hooking his arm around Demetrius’s hips as he did so, and flipping him onto the ground.

“They’re fighting, they’re fighting!” the girl screeched excitedly, and by the time the baker emerged, ghosted with
flour and shouting a long string of curses, the boy had Demetrius pinned to the ground and was happily pummeling his face.

“He started it,” the boy said when the baker grabbed him by the back of his collar and hoisted him up.

Demetrius attempted to say something in response—“Did not,” for example—but found himself unable to speak because of the pool of blood overflowing his lips and spilling down his chin.

Later, as his father applied poultices to his bruises and cool rags to his blackened eyes, Demetrius maintained his silence.

“It’s one thing,” his father said, shaking his head, “to engage in every sort of stupid and childish prank with the Princess. We expect it from her. She has grown wild from the outset, and a certain level of wildness is acceptable from those who will one day bear the burden of leading their people.” His father dipped another rag into the earthenware bowl of cool well water. “The rest of us, son, must maintain appearances. If your beloved mother were alive today, no doubt she’d tell me that I have done a dreadful job of raising you and that I must be more firm.”

His father sighed, and still Demetrius said nothing.

“I don’t know, son,” his father continued. Demetrius noticed that the old man’s eyes were wet and wide, as though torn between grief and dreaming. “Everything seems to be turned upside down, doesn’t it? The Mountain King rattles his saber, and our King can do nothing but bury himself in his studies.” He stood, went to the basin, and washed his hands. “And, well, it’s a pity about the Princess, isn’t it?”

Demetrius went to his feet. “Explain what you mean by that, Father,” he said in a voice as sharp as he could manage with his swollen lips.

His father ran his hand over his balding head. “Son, I’m talking about war—a thing you, thankfully, have no experience with, and I’d like to keep it that way. Now, if
I
were king—”

Demetrius, his patience at an end, smacked his hand on the wooden table. “Not about the King, Father. About the Princess. What is the pity?”

“Who said anything about pity?”

“You did. Just now. You said it was a pity about the Princess. What did you mean?”

“I did?” His father shook his head. “No, son, I believe you are mistaken. I never said any such thing.” He reached
into his pocket, took out his pipe and his tinderbox, and walked toward the door. “We all love Violet. All of us.” And then he added, in a voice so small and slippery that it was little more than a whisper, “Of course, if she were a
real
princess, she would be beautiful.”

Demetrius followed his father out the door. “Father, I’m sorry,” he said, “but could you repeat that last bit?”

“What’s gotten into you, boy? I said that we all love Violet. End of story.”

He nodded. “I see. Thank you, Father.”

“Of course, my son. But wait! Come back here this instant. Demetrius? Where are you going?”

But it was too late. Demetrius ran past the stables and disappeared from sight.